Adjustments
by GrrHatLet
Summary: Returning to the orphanage after his first taste of Hogwarts.


"Well, here we are." The carriage driver pulled the reins as the cart finally reeled to a halt in front of a dark winding road. Completely deserted, aside from a large-looking building standing at the top of the hill. He turned around as his charge got off for the ride. A small boy with dark hair and darker eyes clambered out of the carriage, pulled out a heavy trunk from behind him, and heaved the weight outside. The man regarded his heavy baggage with a tilt of his head.

"Awful long walk up that road," he stated, nodding up to the gravel-laden path winding to the dim, old-looking building. "Sure you don't want a ride up?"

The boy turned his head politely, and gave a good-natured smile. "No thank you." He replied. "My housemates are frightened by horses."

The carriage driver tipped his hat in turn, and gave a smile of his own. "It can be pretty overwhelming for Muggleborns at first, 'spect you'll want a return to the old life for the time being, right?"

"Yes, sir." The boy nodded kindly, though his tone suggested the conversation was over.

With another tip of his hat, theman gathered his reins. "Well, have a good summer." And with a crack of his whip, the cozy but rickety carriage was off. Horse hooves padding down the pavement of the cobblestone road. Without looking back, the little boy turned to the mud-strewn path, but did not walk it immediately. Instead, he gazed at the old, haggard building it would lead him up to—all tall and gray in the distance, but that was all could be said for it. Tall and gray. Fundamental. A house.

Not a home.

Taking his first resentful step forward, he ventured towards the brick building and his legs seemed to lock into autopilot.

Contrary to what he'd told that man, he had _not_ wanted to get back to the "old life"; he had not wanted to go back at_ all_. In fact, if he had a say, he would never see that decrepit, godforsaken place again. The rocks crunched under his feet, and the closer he got, the louder he could hear the sounds of children from afar. A life he couldn't _wait_ to get back to: all the whining and childish bickering and screaming, there was a time Tom had honestly thought he'd have to set something on fire to get some peace and quiet.

So he had.

But not worrisomely: that jungle gym had recovered just fine. It was the _children_ who had to stay in the infirmary for 3 days. As usual, no one could prove it was Tom.

Poor, poor, Tom, cast off from other children during infancy; claimed to be a "funny" baby; sometimes rumors flew he was the devil's predecessor but as usual, the old nurses' nonsense was dismissed. Residing along his tormentors just increased the abuse tenfold, and with so little options presented to him he had no choice but to strike back.

Well, that was how things worked in Wool's Orphanage. You had to establish yourself or the others would walk all over you, just like they did to the younger kids who were running the orphanage by the time _they_ were older kids and had forgotten what it was like.

If only he'd known underage wizards were not kept track of until they were in school; Tom would've…"established" himself a lot sooner.

All alone in a Muggle orphanage. With no record of his parents from either side of the worlds he now knew, and from the way things looked, no kind he would ever get. But as any good Slytherin would be, Tom Riddle was known for his persistency.

The others…they had taken to him as well as the Muggle children, but it was nothing he couldn't already grasp, and even then it was still _much _better than surviving at Wool's. Not all the children hated him—quite a few, even from other houses, approached on good terms—and the teachers were so easily astounded by his abilities. It appeared despite never knowing magic from a young age, he was _very_ advanced at it. And while those other Slytherin-Sorted children valued lineage in great regard, there was something else that was almost as important: power. If his progress kept up (and it would), who's to say within a year they wouldn't be eating from out of the palm of his hand?

He walked up to the knockers and finally opened the door for himself. Casting his gaze to the left he finally noticed something he'd never thought he'd hear at the orphanage: silence.

And then it hit him: all the other children were school-aged as well, including the ones who victimized him. Maybe they'd have homework of their own for the summer; perhaps it, if not entirely sway their attention, would swerve it off of him as a distraction.

Oh well, it was only 3 months…

A few seconds of standing quickly changed his mind.

It was like pandemonium when Tom walked in the door. A shrieking little girl greeted him while tugging on the dress of a nursemaid holding a crying toddler. Another noise in the back—leveled only by the peaceful sound of stampeding rhinos—found him looking at the children who were missing from the playground. All were running back and forth, with the nurses screaming after them like raging old baboons.

Mrs. Cole, as usual, was nowhere in sight.

This being the only life he'd never known, Tom had never noticed before. It had always been the norm to wake up, eat by, and sleep next to this madhouse of children. But now that he got a taste of Hogwarts he realized he never wanted to walk back in here as long as he lived. Turning around, he just spotted the carriage that had taken him back as he raced toward the window but it was too late: the cart was already bobbing down to insect-size down the road, and Tom's hands sank down the window, watching as hopelessness regained its rightful place in his damaged little heart.

And it was then that a heavy wave of something crashed over from behind him. A collective gasp sprang through the room.

Tom stood soundly for a moment, ignoring at the drip, drip, dripping sounds of the water running off this clothes patted to the ground, before turning around every so silently, so softly, almost like a snake in the grass…

A boy gaped at him from his hands and knees. Apparently one of the children had tripped down the stairs and had lost their grip on a bucket of soapy water (one could only hope was used on a window or a floor). The crowds of playing children were now frozen to the floorboards, every pair of eyes wide and several mouths hanging open. The looks of fright were barreling down at him, and even a few nursemaids stopped and watched warily to see what he would do.

His eyes darted to his wand holster.

_No use of underage magic… _Rang in his ears.

_Drip, drop!_

But _they_ didn't know that…

Tom merely had to turn to them, smirk, and they all scattered like roaches under a spotlight. Without a word, Tom grabbed his suitcase and pulled it upstairs, shedding as much clothing as decently possible until he would get up to his room.

Well, even if it _was_ going to be just another long, hot, boring summer, it would be the quietest he'd ever known…


End file.
